


Punishment Game

by resplendentCaballer



Category: Bleach
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-19 03:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11889504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resplendentCaballer/pseuds/resplendentCaballer
Summary: She keeps going back.





	Punishment Game

“Where is that LITTLE RAGING BITCH?!”

 

Oh?  Was Nnoitra yelling about her?  Magdalena stopped in her tracks for a second, laundry basket full of folded clothes for Grimmjow and his fraccion in her arms, and listened.

 

“I'M GONNA SKIN THAT FRANKENSTEIN LOOKING MOTHERFUCKER!”

 

Oh, yeah, that was her.  He found the present she left him.  Magdalena broke into a sprint.  

 

The echoes of her frantic footsteps let her form a vision of the hallway in her mind.  A familiar figure approached and, oh, be still, her non-existent heart!  That slouched posture!  That lack of regard for appearance!  What beautiful disrespect for authority!  Oh, if only she, too, could be so gloriously unfettered!  Magdalena treasured the scars and stitches left over from when she'd go too far, the way he could hurt her!  Always so personal and intimate!  Never anything overly cruel, just a good, old-fashioned ass-kicking!  She liked that.  Would never say it out loud, but sometimes she really did it on purpose.

 

Maybe he'd manage to kill her someday.  She'd be honored to have this paragon of freedom end her pitiful existence.  She'd also enjoy being dragged into his bed.  Honestly, anything to take authority away from Moira.  Denying her was fun.  Taking punishment from a hand that didn't belong to the spider was like a gift from God.

 

‘Look.  You don't get to have all of me,’ was the message each fight, each lost limb, every bruise sent to the _Costurera_ ‘I am not yours.’

 

“Grimmjow!  Hide me!” she yelled with comical panic as she passed him in the corridor.  He wouldn't help her.  He owed her nothing.  Magdalena knew this.

 

Despite her desperate crush, their relationship remained barely civil.  Casual, sometimes.  Banter.  They bantered.  It just… it just felt good to be acknowledged.  Even if it meant playing the fool.  Still, an inkling of hope lingered.

 

“Nah, still not over the thing with the shampoo,” he snapped, walking right passed her.

 

Damn.  She forgot about that.  Neither of them slowed their pace.  “Oh, come on, that was fucking funny!”

 

“On your own, Mag,” he growled, waving dismissively.

 

She whined, lamenting the death of hope’s final spark.  “Fuck you!”

 

Immense, angry spiritual pressure hit her like a Menos Grande and suddenly the laundry was on the floor and her body was pressed against the wall.

 

“You think you're funny, don't you?” Nnoitra shouted in her face.  “You think you're smart?”

 

“Yes.  I am hilarious,” she snarked back in the face of impending death.  She'd planted a pair of Nelliel’s underwear in his room.  Multiple pairs.  Unwashed.  Mag thought it was lovely commentary about his raging hate boner.  She honestly thought she was doing him a favor.  You know.  Get him something nice he couldn't get on his own and was too prideful to ask for?

 

“Yeah?  Well so is this!”

 

Fuck.  Her blood splattered all over the clean clothes when he cut her head clean off her neck.

 

She'd have to wash those again later.  And requisition more clorox bleach.

 

\---------

 

Later, when Moira was sewing her head back on and repairing her torn-up eyelids, Mag figured she got off easy.  Achy eye sockets, a raging headache, and a weird taste in her mouth.

 

“I can't believe he used my head as bowling ball.”

 

Moira’s fingers brushed her hand in familiar motions. _You're a fucking idiot.  You're going to get yourself killed.  Someday, Puppet Construction isn't going to save you._

 

Magdalena felt her heart knot in her throat.  It was one thing to be defiant when out and about, but when sitting here, in her caretaker’s firm and sturdy arms?  How could she ever dream about being so ungrateful?  Still.  She swallowed her shame and kept it light.  “But what else am I supposed to do for fun?”

 

_Your job?_  

 

“That's not fun.”  It was her only freedom, but how could she enjoy it if she would inevitably return to Moira?

 

Moira huffed.   _Train_. 

 

Mag laughed.  Yeah right.  She didn't exactly get _stronger_.  Her power was one of those weird, gimmicky ones that mostly involved a bit of hand to hand to compliment it, but… gosh.  She wasn't a fighter.  She was a meatsack.  A thing to stand in front of Moira and take punishment.  A spare.  Mag was spare limbs.  When Moira lost one, Mag would be near with a useless, pointless limb for her to use.  Mag herself was just such a waste of space, honestly.  A failure of an arrancar.  “With who?”

 

Seamstress grinned.

 

\---------

 

“This is a horrible idea,” Magdalena squeaked.

 

Hoarse, choked laughter echoed from the other side of the sparring hall.

 

“Please don't make me do this,” came a tired, desperate sigh.  Sincerity.  She hated this.  Hated Moira hurting her.  Moira was supposed to be her safe space, someone she could trust, someone she could let her guard down with.

 

The laughter got louder as the sound of thick twine being snapped made Mag flinch.

 

The voice that rang out sounded like sandpaper on a chalkboard.  “Weave, Toile d’Aragnée!”

 

Fuck.  “Moira, I'm scared.”  Magdalena didn't mean to say it.  It came out.  Because it was true.  She hated this.  Hated this hated this hated this hated this.  They were supposed to be partners!  Two sides of a coin!  But it always came down to this.

 

The sound of eight, needle legs skittering on the stone floor made her shiver.  “Release your fucking resurrección, Magdalena,” Moira hissed.

 

Mag whimpered.  Moira only spoke while in resurreción, mostly because she saw this as a ‘higher form’ and figured she was above the temptation of lying.  That was her thing.  Moira hated liars.

 

“But we match-up poorly for training!” she complained.

 

“'Poor match-up' isn't even going to begin to apply if you don't release your fucking sword.”

 

It was jealousy, really.  Magdalena belonged to Moira.  Moira was the only one allowed to punish her.  When Mag egged others on, pushed them to lay their hands on her, to tear her apart, to use her jigsaw puzzle body for their amusement, what was Moira to do but make up for it by beating the absolute shit out of her subordinate?

 

They had always been together.  Even with her vague impression of her existence before becoming a Menos, Mag was sure that Moira had always been there.  She shepherded her when Moira went Adjuchas first, making sure Mag didn't trip over her own feet and die before she could evolve.  Revenge.  It was revenge.  It was punishment.

 

All her existence as a Hollow, Moira had been punishing her for some crime.  Maybe it was something that happened as baseline Hollows, maybe it went back to when they were spirits, Hell, maybe Magdalena had wronged Moira somehow when they were human.  But that need to dominate, that need to punish turned into something else.

 

It didn't matter now, anyway.  The reasons didn't matter.  What mattered was that Moira loved to hurt and Magdalena was addicted to the pain like heroin.  She hated it, hated it with all her being, but above all, she _needed_ it.

 

“Fine!  Hatch, Marioneta!”

 

Besides, Moira had guided her through the darkest and most confusing points of her existence.  What kind of person would she be if she just left?

 

Magdalena was such a horrible person for hating what she deserved.

 

Mag’s body changed, bone protruding from various parts of her until her all her points of articulation imitated a ball-jointed doll.  She flexed and blades protruded from her joints, sharp and strong.

 

“That's better!”  Moira called and launched caustic threads of spider silk which Mag sliced through easily.

 

The fight went on, Magdalena exerting her puppeteer’s will on her surroundings.  Every rock and stray pebble and loose debris became part of her consciousness.  They fought, needles jamming into bone and blades slicing into flesh and toxins burning away at skin and boulders coming out of the blue to bludgeon.

 

It came down to a grapple, actually, neither side willing to relent.

 

But Mag left her neck open and fangs sunk in, her muscles going limp and mind turning fuzzy.

 

Gentle hands caressed her face before rough lips brushed her forehead, then her cheek, then over her lips.

 

Moira adored her little dolly.  Such a beautiful little thing.  She couldn't remember what Magdalena looked like before, but she remembered lovely green eyes.  A face with two of them, a face with claws buried in both, a face with two gaping holes.

 

The vague memory sent a shiver of satisfaction down the spider’s spine.  Her dolly was so much prettier when she thought she was ugly.  Costurera’s little monster.  Her ghoul.  Her toy.

 

“You did well,” that hoarse voice rasped.  “Sleep, precious thing.”

 

“Yes, Mistress,” Mag slurred before unconsciousness took her, safe and comfortable in the arms of the only trustworthy person in her world.

 

Hollows feel love.  They had to.  What else was Moira supposed to call the warmth in her chest, this glorious weakness?  Everyone else in this cursed plane were filthy, soiled with lies and delusions of righteousness.  How thankful Moira was that she had a clean thing, a little vessel she could turn away from that horrible nasty world.  Something that loved her enough to listen to her reasons, her ideals, see the beauty in her silence.

  
Moira sealed her sword and lifted Magdalena in her arms, carrying the only pure and unsullied thing in her world back to their quarters.

**Author's Note:**

> (To preface, these notes are almost entirely self-reflection and real world abuse gets discussed.)
> 
> I had an epiphany in freshman year of high school (I'm in my 3rd year of college now) that nothing was stopping me from making characters as screwed up as I wanted. So Moira and Magdalena happened. They've changed a lot over the years. Magdalena started out as a delicate, submissive little thing. Moira was never quite good to Magdalena, but also not explicitly abusive. They had a very nice symbiotic relationship at one point -- or at least I thought they did.
> 
> Moira has always been a spider, but Magdalena used to have a small bird theme. She was supposed to be a tiny bird, caught in a spider's web and too large to be devoured but small enough to die there. Elements of being a mannequin started to get incorporated and I cut away the bird stuff to keep her thematically cohesive and because Bleach already had "bird" type Arrancar and I wanted something unique.
> 
> I had inklings of what I'd created, what they became. The metaphor they'd become. The catharsis they gave me. Moira was my favorite at first because I like how empowered she was as a character. Strong enough to be an Espada but set aside from them, providing necessary services and bettering the group. I loved how distrusting she was and how skilled she could be. I loved exploring her motivations. But then I started naturally drifting towards Magdalena and realized what she could be. 
> 
> I wanted to let her be that, but then realized that Moira wouldn't allow it. Moira wants to keep her close because she sees Magdalena like a daughter. Moira sees Magdalena's shortcomings and her irresponsible behavior and cages her in, wanting to protect her from the horrible things around her until Magdalena meets her standards -- standards that are both growing and unreachable because Magdalena has never had to fend for herself. Moira has always been there to protect her, forcing her to grow into the monster that Moira expects. A pure thing, conforming to her ideals. When Magdalena struggles and tries to make her own decisions, the consequences of them always take her back to Moira, who proceeds to shame her and punish her because "no, you don't belong to the world and the world doesn't get the touch you -- only I am allowed to hurt you."
> 
> It is now that I'm out of my mom's house that I'm starting to see the parallels. I can track my relationship with my mom through their characterization over the years.
> 
> Which is why Moira isn't my focus anymore. It's why I let Moira die to the Vandenreich eventually. Because Magdalena deserves better. She deserves to make her own choices and mistakes. She deserves to be unfettered. 
> 
> I'll probably write more with these two. Or at least, with Magdalena. Magdalena has some interesting things she does post-Vandenreich arc when she's alone. But for now, I'll mark this as a complete one-shot.
> 
> Also, Magdalena is blind, which is why neither her appearance nor Moira's is discussed. I may elaborate on that in further writings.


End file.
